Rise of the Clans

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The crew stood on decking of the hanger. A sea of dark faces. They were the very worst of the Star League's prisons. A collection of traitors, murderers, and dissenters from across the Core Worlds. Pilots once. Soldiers in name only. Expendable to the means of the General and the High Command. A means to an end. The very image of how desperate things had become.

Scott Rylan let his eyes take them in. Watched the way they moved. Listless. Discontent. He wondered how many of them would be killed by the end of their first sortie. He wondered if any would survive to enjoy the freedom they'd been promised. Mostly he wondered if they'd really be given it. Didn't seem possible, really. Infact, had he cared to, he'd have told them it was far more likely that if the Clans retreated from the Inner Sphere they'd end up on the wrong end of a firing squad. It seemed the only natural end to all this. A clean break.

But that was assuming they even survived. He wondered if they'd ever make it to a sortie. The Bellyacher's hanger was in a sorry state. The walls covered in rust. The railings covered in rust. Overhead the large lights flickered precariously, some shedding starbursts of sparks now and again from their blown out sockets. The old Leopard-III Class Dropship had been pulled out of mothballs, ripped from retirement. It was a constant process for the engineer and mechanic onboard to keep it operating. Twice they'd lost power in the midst of jumps. Already concerned had been voiced about the reactor failing.

The crew seemed aware of it all. Their eyes moved from him to the dark surroundings. In a way it was prison all over again. Hellish. Scott took their attention.

"Alright." He started. The murmurs stopped. He was surprised at the booming assertion of his own voice. Unsettled, some, by the ghostly echo of it from the cavernous hanger confines.

"The deal is we fight and live and we get free. No bullshit. No complaining. They're giving us the worst they got, the least amount of intelligence they can, and objectives foolish by any standard. Some of us are traitors. Some murderers. Some both. So I'm only going to warn you once; you disobey me and you die."

He tried to stay brief. It wasn't hard. He doubted he'd have held their attention had he been long-winded. The General was long-winded. The General always had a lot to say. A short, squat man with a heavy brown and green eyes, the General considered himself a regular inspiration.

The machines behind him loomed tall, battered and war-ravaged hints of what lay before them. They stood a silent sentinel to the briefing. Their empty cockpits black, lending them a dead-eyed appearance as chilling as their size.

"Your Neurohelmets are hooked to a transmitter. You disobey an order or piss me off and I press a button. Your mech goes up like a firecracker and you cook. So don't fuck with me."

He meant it.

"Each of you got your cabin assignments and your Mech assignments already. They're your responsibility. You'll each have a mechanic assigned to you. If he's shitty don't bitch to me about it. You won't get another one."

Scott exhaled some. Most of the mechanics were kids. Young, bright-eyed. Green. He turned his hand towards two men standing off to his left. Hal Hudson and Jack Devrin.

"That's our chief engineer, Hal Hudson. Our Head Mechanic, Jack Devrin. You got a problem with your mechanics you bitch to them. They'll try to help if they can. Most likely they won't be able to. We're all going to have to get used to that." Hal Hudson was fifty-three and had white hair. He was fat, always friendly, and wore his facial hair in a neat goatee. He always wore a tie. Scott assumed it made him feel like he was working with professionals.

Jack Devrin was in his forties, his hair already starting to fall out. Eventually he'd have a horseshoe of hair surrounding a large bald spot. His eyes were brown, his face long and lean, and his build wiry. He waved, uncertainly.

His eyes turned back to the crew.

"We'll have to scavenge what we can. Resupplies will be few and far between. Our first mission is a hit and run on Tokasha Mech Plants. They will be heavily defended by Clanners from Jade Falcon. You all know the score here, it's easy to see. We're expendable. They're going to throw things at us that they'd never attempt with a regular unit. Some of you, probably all of you, are going to get killed. But we're all here because we like blowing shit up. I plan on enjoying this war before my time is up. You're all busted down to Private. I'm the only officer you'll ever deal with. My office and barracks are at the end of the dormitory wing. It's the big one with the star on the front. Now get the fuck out of here."

He turned his head and pursed his thin lips. The years hadn't been kind to Scott. He'd been handsome once. Now, as he spit a thick glob of saliva onto the metal grating at his feet, he was a hardened version of his former self. His body was harder, more conditioned. A consequence of long hours spent in prison with nothing to occupy his time. His skin pale, lacking the tan it'd taken when he was out in the world. His hair unkept, his face unshaven. The angles of his face remained the same. Austere. Cold. Masculine. Only his eyes, the clarion blue eyes of his mother, remained the same. He wondered how much older he looked. Wonder if he looked as old as he felt.

His eyes turned to his Summoner. The old machine looming behind him. It's armor plating scarred badly from its last engagement, bearing patches and spot-welding. Evidence of the frantic efforts to repair it. The black cockpit viewports reflected his tired face back at him, added a degree of cold certainty. The paint was mostly blasted away, but enough remained for him to know that it'd once been a dark olive green. A color similar to the grasses on Terra at night. The color of the garden of Avalon right at the onset of fall.

It'd do just fine to die in.

-------------------------------------------

An Excerpt From Scott Rylan's Journal

Briefed the crew for the first time. A bunch of wretches. A bunch of criminals. Probably going to be damned good pilots. I didn't bother going over the specifics. There's no point. They don't give a shit. If they do then they're more stupid than useful.

There's no way any of us will survive this. The best we can hope for is a decent death. The kind that comes like the dark when you flip a light switch instead of the kind that comes when your cockpit suffers a coolant leak and shrapnel has torn you open from belly-button to crotch. That was how Dravek died. We found him strapped into his command chair covered in neon-green coolant, stinking like rotten eggs and his own shit from where he'd messed his pants. Fragments from a ballistic round of some kind had torn him open, left his guts to slough off into his lap while he thrashed about. His face was a twisted mockery of life.

Shitting your pants wasn't conducive to dying well.

That's probably how it'll be for all of us. The escape modules of our mechs haven't ever been tested. For all I know they weren't really installed. Just a consequence, really.

He has no idea what he's doing giving me a machine.

I need a woman. I need a drink. And I need a stogie. I'm going to take care of the drink and stogie. Maybe I can buy a night with a hooker when we land. If I don't fuck something soon my dick is going to fall off.

-Rylan

Jason Ashby

Jason Ashby stood on the rusted deck of the cargo bay and listened to his new commanding officer, one Scott Rylan, brief them on their situation. As he spoke, Ashby’s dark eyes wandered the cargo bay, taking in the surroundings that he would be working from for the foreseeable future. It was a decrepit ship filled with shoddy mechs. There were missing patches of armor, exposed wiring, and several that he was sure that the rust was the only thing holding them together. He heard one of the mechanics trying to start the fusion reactor on one of the smaller mechs, and the unstable humming and building metal-on-metal grinding noise caused him to wince. He hoped he’d survive the briefing without the reactor cooking off and turning them all into a fine red mist before spreading them over several square kilometers of countryside.

Well, at least he was out of prison. He kept that thought running through his head as the briefing continued. Being forgotten in that cell by everyone, even the people who said that they would protect him, had left him.

The details of their mission were not favorable. They would be tied into a literal kill-switch through their neurohelmets, in mechs that may not even start, on a dropship that may lose power and plummet to a fiery death before it even reaches its destination. And they would be going against the Clans, complete with their technological superiority and fanatical training and discipline. The briefing ended in a perfect fashion that fit the mood on the rusty ship.

Prison was almost starting to look like a better deal.

He turned and began walking towards the Thresher he had been assigned. It was a solid machine, built for speed and hard-hitting close-range fire. And extra-light engine, endo-steel lightened internal structure, myomer accelerated signal circuitry,and jump jets made the 60-ton machine handle like a mech half its size. The rapid-fire 105mm autocannon, twin pulse lasers, twin six-tube missile racks and a secondary medium laser hoped to bring enough fist to the fight that would help offset the thinner armor.

Ashby wanted to meet his mechanic. The bond between a mechwarrior and their mechanic was something he felt was very important. The pilot had to trust the mechanic with his life every time he strapped into the cockpit. Every system had to work or he might not come home in one piece, if at all. From what he could read of the smudged and heavily copied file he had been given, things looked promising – high marks in most technical aspects, but there were a few personality quirks that could be troublesome. Several fights, two reprimands for insubordination, two requested administrative transfers. This Emilio, or Emilian, or whatever it was, Lake looked like quite the pistol.

The mechanic’s back was turned as Ashby walked up and spoke.

“So, looks like we’ll be working together on this one, Emilio” he said, looking up at a bundle of exposed and frayed wiring hanging down from the electronic reloading mechanism on the autocannon.

“It’s Emily. And you mean I’ll be working on this one, and you’ll be tearing it up and wanting me to fix it up again,” came a feminine voice as the mechanic turned. She couldn’t have been more than 20, her hair pulled up under a green mechanic’s cap and her figure hidden by the standard coveralls. Her forehead had a smear of grease across it and her hands were busy wiping the grime off of one of the actuators from the loading mechanism. “It’s always the same with you mech jocks. You have no idea how much work goes into getting these beasts running, especially one that’s been this torn up. You practically expect us to work miracles every damn day.”

He smiled at her. Quite a pistol indeed. He could see where she could get on the nerve of the other mechanics, usually a rowdy bunch of boys not wanting a girl to spoil their fun. The fights, the insubordination, the transfers, they all made sense in the first ten seconds of meeting her.

“Yeah, I do expect you to work miracles and keep things running because it’s my ass strapped in that chair and not yours. While I’m getting shot to hell, you get to sit back here and eat sandwiches and fiddle with your tools.”

She slammed the actuator on the steel table, wheeled about to face him, and stepped up so that her face and his were separated by inches.

“I work harder than anyone here and I never get any goddamn respect,” she spat at him. “Just because I’ve got a set of tits doesn’t mean I don’t know my way around the inside of a fusion reactor! You should have seen this heap before I got my hands on it. It was the shittiest thing in the dropship, and now it’s at least combat ready! It might not win any points for style, but it will damn sure get the job done. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got work to do.”

She turned and stormed back to the table, snatching up the actuator and attacking it with a wire brush.

“By the way, you’ve got two loose lead wires on the inner servo circuit board here,” he said, tapping above him on the bundle of wiring leading to the electronic mechanism that loaded the 105mm shells into the autocannon. “And trust me, I know exactly how much work goes into them. I spent quite a bit of time at New Avalon prototyping these before…” he trailed off, the past catching up with him. Even though he was out of prison, he wasn’t free. And even when he was a free man, he would have no place to go. He shook his head slightly, shaking out the memory before turning back to Emily. She had turned to look at him, a half-astonished look on her face that he would even know where to find the inner actuator, let alone spot two loose connections.

“Hand me those dikes and that solder gun,” he said to her, a smile creeping across his face. “We’ve got work to do.”

Zoey Kessler

Zoey guessed her years as a prisoner were more kind to her than most as she looked around the room, feet kicked up on the empty chair in front of her. The time mainly spent in solitary confinement was certainly preferable in a prison where most of the inmates had been people you fought in combat before. Ah, the perks of being considered a war criminal.

Not like she could blame the Lyran Commonwealth for not getting her out. Hooray for bureaucracy and potential political shit storms, right? She chuckled a bit to herself and ruffled her short hair, watching Colonel Rylan give his spiel. She chuckled and made a mental note to be right next to him if she were to piss him off. At least he wasn't a half bad looking guy. She cracked her knuckles and hopped out of her chair at the completion of his speech and made her way to her assigned mech which hid its short self next to the equally shoddy Thresher. She couldn't help but cringe a bit at the sight of the Bushwacker in all of its secondhand glory. At the same time, it had been brought back to life with several injections of clan technology. Ah well. Couldn't something nice looking all the time.

She chuckled and scratched her head, wondering just how much influence her old commanding officer had in getting her a long range mech. Jackass -knew- she preferred more of a scrapper. Guess she had to do her damnedest not to die so she could find something more fun.

"Good lord...why do I see myomer? I shouldn't see that..." She sighed and ran her hand over the tightly bundled tubes and looked at the pile of scrap armor next to it, and the tangled mess of cables coming from the Bushwacker's knee.

"That's because I'm not done with it. Ma'am." She perked a brow and turned at the deep voice, seeing the tall, broad-shouldered man who came from behind the other leg holding a large plate of armor. He chuckled and set it down. She couldn't help but grin a bit as she leaned against the leg. "Yeah? Seems like it'd be important. I prefer having all the important bits covered."

"Such a shame, that." He smirked as he set the plate aside and tugged at the wires, quickly going to work. All right, she liked this guy. Didn't hurt at all that he was cute. She laughed a bit and shook her head before offering her hand. "Zoey. You'll be keeping me alive..."

"Sam." He reached behind him to shake her hand, where instead to slapped the needed wire crimper.

"Pleasure. Now get to work. No time for idle chatter." She chuckled and climbed up the leg of the mech to the cockpit, letting out a small sigh as she eased herself into the chair. It seemed like she was home again, after years of being stuck in a small concrete box, even though she guessed that's where they were planning on tossing her back after they were done with her. A small, comfortable smile crept onto her face as she closed her eyes, envisioning the freedom of the battlefield.

She quickly shook herself out of the short reverie and flipped a few switches, frowning at the result. Of course they couldn't get her a damn decent gyro. She climbed down from the mech and hopped next to Sam. "Hey, there's a-"

"Short in this leg that would cause the gyro to over correct at every step. On it." He just kept working and yanked out a horribly scarred wire.

"...You're all right, Sam."

The lights in his office flickered weakly, struggling to keep on as the barracks power supply went through another conniption. The engineers had told him that he had a choice between powering the Mech Bay's and Workshops or the dormitories. It hadn't been much of a choice. That was generally how things worked in the Military. Scott found a cold comfort that some things didn't change.

His desk had been salvaged from a mobile command center somewhere along the edge of the Pentagon Worlds. The pale metal had been dropped in his quarters with a set of small, torn chairs. The blood from it's last occupant hadn't even been washed off the surface, leaving a dried blush across the surface that had taken him an hour to scrub off. There was no explanation from the Troopers who had left it for him. Just a bleak look. The kind of look commanders didn't like to see in servicemen. The kind that told him just how bad the war was going.

Scott wasn't surprised. The Clans were a hellish threat on their own, let alone united. Most of his crew had spent their years warring between the Inner Sphere families. House Davion, House Steiner, House Kurida. Every noble claim to the Core Worlds was bound to be refuted by someone. Of course they never paid for it in their own blood. That was a soldier's job. Strapped into a sixty-ton nuclear reactor with legs and told to duke it out for honor, or security. Or something.

Change.

That's what they'd said. You fight for change.

If that'd meant anything it'd have been worth the price. But it didn't. It was the kind of talk that made families popular and sects fanatical. The only fight worth fighting that Scott had ever known was in defense of his right to live. His right to smoke his cigars and sit back in rusty piles of shit like this without another man cursing down the back of his neck.

The paperwork and finances were simple. They had almost no assets. No spare parts. The Mech's would have to be repaired as they went, refitted as they went. They didn't have any spare ammunition for any of the projectile weapons. Only two medium lasers to replace those that could not be repaired. Being destitute made accounting easy. There were a lot of zeroes to count. No decimal places.

The General had coaxed him with promises of freedom.

"Hell, if any of them live you could hire them on and form your own Merc Company. There will be work out there. You get to keep what you salvage." He'd said.

But the brass had never understood what had made him who he was. It wasn't money. It had never been medals. They'd tried to reign him in with both and failed. The efforts had only pushed him further to the brink. It seemed the more he wrestled with himself the easier they made it for him to come to grips with his desires. He remembered their faces at his trial as he declined to explain himself, or the events of the day in which his life was forever changed.

Disbelief. Anger.

And now they'd turned to him in desperation and given him pilots and a ship, told him to go and kill the Clanners. Dangled their idea of freedom infront of his face like a rotten carrot. And that was fine. He'd follow it for a time. He wasn't ready anyway.

But life seldom found the time for men like him to have second chances. Scott saw it for what it was. There wasn't a chance he'd let it slip through his fingers again. Dalia Kerensky, older sister to Mikhail Kerensky, would pay for his years in prison. She'd answer to the dishonor paid to him.

In the dark of his office Scott Rylan sat behind a dead man's desk, smoking the chewed remnants of his cigar and thought of justice, lost time and destiny. The goings on of the pilots in the Hanger couldn't have been farther from his mind.

Yorini

This place was little better than the cell she’d been confined to. Maybe it was the faces of those around her; the dark haired woman paused to look each over, one at a time while their supposed commander Rylan droned on about death. There was a bored look to her, as she stood with hands tucked into the long sleeves of a kimono that once would have looked amazing draped over her, there were drab little flowers now sewn into the brocade, the thick belt at her waist looked like the most recent addition, it still held some luster to it, a shine that was missing from both her face and her elaborate garb.

With each passing of her dark, silent eyes over her unit, one man held her gaze far longer than anyone else. Yorini was careful to keep her face natural, even and calm, but the sudden thud of her heart against her ribcage told a completely different story. Maybe once it would have been from excitement. But it was all she could to keep her nails from digging into her own flesh where they were hidden, and keep them from the scar on her face.

“Now get the fuck out of here."

That pulled her eyes back to their harsh spoken, Officer Rylan. His message was clear to all of them; they were going to die, so they should enjoy it. He wouldn’t think twice about his collection of pilots. Which truth be told was the way she liked things anyway. Yorini turned from their little group to approach her Mech; it could have been beautifully efficient once. It was a Mad Dog, a common machine. One that she wasn’t wholly unfamiliar with. Barely a heavy class, support mech.

A man stood to the side of the machine and its reverse jointed legs, Yorini took a moment to eye it, and where it only had specs of blue and yellow paint left. There were exposed panels and wires that left her eyebrows knitting. Instead of inspecting it further she chose to address the big man, who easily stood a foot taller than she, and had a good two hundred pounds on her. His belly was big and round beneath the coveralls, his beard was red and tickled down passed where it opened to an undershirt.

“Hagetaka?” Her voice was soft, but sure. She could have spoken English, but for the moment she chose not to, it wasn’t to be insulting, but she’d have to think over the tactical advantages of being ignorant for the moment.

The big man merely looked at her, confusion written on his face, until it dawned on him that she was confirming the type of Mech it was.

“Right, Yes, Ma’am.” He nodded a little too enthusiastically, while pointing to the pile of rust, metal and wires.

“Hehitakea.” He repeated and butchered it, but she smiled anyway, her scar pulling up as her eyes crinkled and lips traveled upward.

“Vuuuuul-Toooour.” He pointed more insistently, and she realized he couldn’t be much older than she. It was the beard that gave him the old man look, but his voice spoke of a youthful energy.

“Mad Dog.” She used a heavy accent, more for show than anything else. Her training had included English, but she was still more partial to Japanese. Yorini's Mechanic smiled and nodded, then pointed to himself like he had to the Mech, he seemed harmless enough, charming in that childish way.

“Waylon.” He hit his chest with a finger, his big grin, pushed the hair from his lips and cheek away to show yellowed, but straight teeth.

She nodded.

“You?” Yorini was beginning to tire of his game of “Show you mine, you show me yours” and gave him a bored sounding:

“Yorini.”

“Me, Waylon. You, Yorini?” He said again, and she tried not to laugh, smothering a bigger smile behind her sleeves.

He blushed a hot red, and gave her a nervous chuckle before pulling out some wiring, from one of the jointed toes of her Mech.

“It’s shot.” He told her, giving a thumbs down.

“Shot. Ain’t no good. No.Good.” He said slowly, instead of nodding this time, Yorini made a move to walk toward a soldering gun and wire cutters that would be required for Waylon to re-route any faulty signals.

“Good?” She asked, smiling again, encouragingly.

“Yeah, Yeah. I’ll make it good, Ma'am.”

Hiro had been through this before - the "motivational" speech. While it was certainly different, it was similar to the speeches he heard during his career. The disobey-me-and-I-push-the-button thing? Hiro thought of it 10 years ago. And now it was coming back to haunt him.

Death. This was something Hiro had come to terms with. He had been beaten, stabbed, shot, and more, and still he hadn't died. He should already be dead many times over. He decided to enjoy what he could.

And he wanted to enjoy the familar face and figure across from him.

“Now get the fuck out of here."

The comment didn't distract Hiro. Still, he appreciated Rylan's candor and no-nonsense attitude. He had something about him that good officers had, something that couldn't be trained or learned.

But Hiro appreciated something else, or someone else. The Japanese girl, her arms in her kimono sleeves, trying so hard to pretend not to look at him, when he fearlessly looked at her. He remembered her from the Sun Zhang Academy and from the First Sword of Light. She was a Chu-i, a lieutenant in charge of a lance of four mechs, like he was. She looked different now, not as bright and lovely as she was. Wilted. She looked wilted. He felt his skin tingling, smelled her scent in the air. It made him stand up straight, feeling the swelling start between his legs. He took a deep breath, looking at her during the whole speech. He wanted to touch her and taste her... again. To make her alive again.

She turned her face and he saw the scar. To some, it marred her beauty. To Hiro, it enhanced it, showing she was a survivor. He wondered what other markings she had hidden under that silk fabric.

She walked away, swaying her hips seductively, making him want to follow her, which he did. He was mesmerized as he walked by his mech and his mechanic. After all these years, ending up on the same dropship. It ws destiny.

She didn't notice him, or chose not to, as he followed her. He eavesdropped on the conversation, biding his time for a moment to join in, to take her away. He said her name.

"Yorini."

He didn't say anything after that. He just held his arm out, guiding her out of the hangar.

Rory Keegan

“Welcome to hell.” This is the sentiment running through her mind as emerald eyes trace over the cold and dreary cargo bay; flecks of rust peeling the rotten metal surface. She briefly studies the motley crew of miscreants she stands among before shoving her hands into the front pockets of the brown leather jacket half way zipped eyes lowering to stare at the toes of the combat boots on her feet.

Lorelei “Rory” Keegan spent the last four years in a small ten by ten cell with a solitary window too high to look out of and only an hour each day outside. Then she was offered a chance at freedom, but this supposed freedom has a price; one which will likely claim her life. She recalls the visit from former Lieutenant now Commander Jack Van Owen, “If it were up to me you’d stay locked in this hell hole, but pilots are needed and you were the best Recon I’ve had under my command.”

“I’d wager I’m still the best.” She smirked, cold green eyes met the Commander’s stark blue gaze; they’d been in love once, but her costly mistake had erased everything. She’d lost more than her freedom that day. Jack smiled, but there was no warmth behind the sentiment, “Perhaps.”

His smile both infuriated and hurt. Why had they sent him to make the offer? To rehash fresh what she had done? She hadn’t forgotten. She relived it in her dreams almost nightly. It was her single life’s regret. Furthermore why had he agreed? Bastard. Four years ago they had betrayed each other – she his order and him their love.

“What do you say, Pistol? It’s a onetime offer they won’t send it again.”

Pistol. She grated against his chosen nickname; christened to her by him in reverence of her temper, which burned as hot as her russet hair. His patience and mild manner had tried to tame her and she had let him, mostly.
.
"Alright." Their commander, Rylan, Scott’s voice broke through the memory haze and snapping her attention to the rugged man, who speaks with a gruff unkindness as he explains their mission and situation. At least he’s as realistic about their situation. She wasn’t naïve or delusional enough to think this second chance was a reward.

“So I'm only going to warn you once; you disobey me and you die."

The words echo within Rory. Past misbehavior had earned her a number of reprimands and eventually landed her in prison here it would land her dead. “Take note, girl, time to change your ways.” Stubborn- fearless -quick to act and think later these qualities made her an excellent Recon, but it also made her bad a soldier, well, she wasn’t a soldier any longer. She continues to listen to the barest of information he has to offer, which if summarized would translate simply to “We’re fucked.”

Which is fine by her, death in battle would be better than rotting away in tiny prison cell. Then again they could die any minute in this broken down excuse for a starship. Nothing but the scrapes for the dredges of society. His prompt dismal “Now get the fuck out of here.” Brings a smile to Rory’s lips she already liked the seemly unlikeable commander and her gaze rested on him for a few moments before breaking away from the group.

Pulling her hands free from the pockets of her jacket she walks towards her assigned Mech, the Osiris wasn’t armored like the rest of the unit, but it was a newer model compared to the others and seemingly in less disrepair. There was little left of the white paint and gold accents. Her hand touches the metal, its exterior cold; she drags it along as she circles around to the back of the machine aching for the adrenaline rush, the sweaty palms and even the sink of the cockpit during the heat of battle. Soon she’ll feel whole again. “Sorry I didn’t have her ready for your arrival, but she didn’t arrive is the best condition.”

A male voice says from behind forcing Rory to turn around her hand dropping to her side and meets the hazel eyes of a young male with hair every bit as red as her own. He was just a couple of inches taller, gangly and at least ten years younger; wiping his hands with a rag before offering the right to shake, “I’m Tucker. Wayne Tucker.”

“Nice to meet you, Tucker. I’m Rory Keegan.” Grasping his hand she gives it a firm squeeze before letting go, “As long as she’s ready to go before our first mission…preferably a good many days before so we can work out any kinks.”

“Sure thing, Ms. Keegan.” The mechanic said with a nervous smile and Rory, in spite of herself, smiled back this guy could be her kid brother, if she had one.

“Call me Rory.”

“Right, sorry.” Walking around to the front of the Mech he begins to explain some of the repairs he had to make, “When she first arrived the power conduits were shot and there wasn’t a lick of juice running through the systems, but I replaced a number of corroded wires, which got the system online long enough to run a diagnostic and prioritize….”

Rory politely listened as he gave her the rundown and while it should make her feel better that he was thorough she found herself feeling depressed. They really were on a suicide mission – each and every battle wouldn’t be won only by skill, but if they were lucky enough to have their Mech not breakdown in the middle of battle. The mechanic crew had a challenge and for their sake they better be up for it.

Near a half hour later Rory leaves the cargo bay for the dormitory wing she hadn’t a thing to her name but the clothes on her back. The dim lights flicker above her head as her boots clank down the metal grate of the floor. A faded number 12 marks her bunk, a small rectangle of a room no bigger than her prison cell. Staring at the door she didn’t want to go in. Looking down the corridor she stares at the door marked with a star. He didn’t exactly seem liked the conversing type, but even a brief personal introduction to keep her from entering her own quarters for a few minutes longer will be worth any sharp words he might growl at her for the disturbance, if he’s even there. Standing in front of Scott Rylan's door Rory lifts her hand and wraps her knuckles firmly against the metal.

Clang Clang Clang

Not even an hour. The burden of command had already settled firmly into place and it'd not even been an hour since the Junk Jocks had gotten onboard. Scott glanced to the door, that battered steel slab that looked as though it belonged on the hinges of a safe instead of a CO's cabin. The Bellyacher's age showed in its primitive repairs. The way pieces of trim had been stripped off in places of the ship to shore up counters and shelves in others. The way doors from old tanks, submarines, and sea-faring ships had been ripped from the scrap metal pile and spot-welded onto the cabins. The mechanics thought their jerry rigging gave the ship personality. Everyone else with a set of eyes and a brain thought it looked like a pile of junk.

Scott scented the air. Smelled his own sex heavy in the cabin's enclosed confines. The bottle of whiskey on his desk had gone abandoned once he'd settled. Images of the girls below him enough to spark wants that'd been stirring for years on end. He'd just gotten his hard dick in hand when the interruption came. And still he sat, his fist closed along his mighty girth, staring in blatant disbelief from his desk.

"Colonel?!" A woman's voice. It lifted. Questioning even as he pushed his prick down his thigh and into his utility pants, fastening them as he rose.

The door creaked in protest as he pulled it open, watching as she stepped past him. It was a slightly larger quarters than the rest of them could enjoy, but it wasn't luxury either. The only real benefit was the personal shower and bathroom. It allowed him to forego the communal shower. The communal latrine.

But elsewise his room was spartan. Empty of furnishings. No pictures, no plants, and no holovid screen. Instead, littering his desk, were snuffed cigar butts and a bottle of amber Whiskey. A few papers scattered here and there, a battered Mini-Computer was folded closed on the end. It's impact-resistant case scarred and scored, marking it in similar condition to the ship itself. A mess.

"What do you want, Keegan?" He growled.

Scott could smell her from here. Sweet. She lacked the luxury perfumes of the whores in Avalon, but there was something natural, gritty, and good about that. The vault-like door closed with a heavy thud. His pale eyes walked over her frame, bold in its appraisal. The appreciation of her lean curves and the sultry red of her hair a brief one, made in passing before he was on his way to the opposite side of his desk.

His prick ached. Outlined in his pants, thick, swollen so much that every stride sparked sensations to arc through him. Rough. Unsatisfying. He needed a drink and took one as he stood at the desk's side, his back to the woman. The booze couldn't hide the scent of his want in the air, that musky masculine smell that clung to a man when he was in desperate need. It was a stink you got used to in the army. You lived with in jail. Locked up with men so desperate for a woman some of them lost sight of themselves and turned into Queens.

Scott hadn't. And so for years it'd just kept piling on.

The whiskey was awful stuff, grain-liquor of the cheapest quality. It tasted like rubbing alcohol and smelled like gasoline. But the bite was sure, the warmth in his belly sudden and sharp. It helped take the edge of his need just enough that he could speak to her, strain to listen.

But he didn't dare look at her right yet. Not until he'd had a couple more pulls.

Yorini

She looked back over her shoulder, playing the part of the innocent, the playful foreigner, ignorant child. She’d never been such in her other life. Before she’d had her face carved out in a jealous rage. This suited the situation, got things done with a minimum of fuss and talk. Giggle a little and men crawled over hot coals to help a female in distress, even in these advanced and trying times.

Yorini had been told she’d had a face that could stir a hundred soldiers. Her eyes so dark they were bright like inlaid jewels. She’d followed her teachings, walking the fine line of tradition and technology. Soldier and slave to passion.

Hiro, a face from a stained and sordid past that she’d never expected to turn up again. Certainly not here, in this rusted heap. Falling so far from where they’d once stood, it was degrading as much as it was humiliating. and it was so strange to hear her name on his lips again, it could have been a thousand years between the time she’d last heard it whisper to her ears. She’d chosen to ignore him, though he’d blatantly kept his eyes on her while their leader had spoken, not even to tear them away when she refused to look at him.

Tenacious and demanding, he’d been that way as a friend and colleague.

Why not as a former lover?

As far as Yorini could see, he’d left her with little choice but to follow him. What with his arm out to escort her, and she didn’t want to get into any rehashing here anyway, there was no honor in anger, and no place for it among strangers.

Instead of the polite smile she’d given Waylon, Hiro didn’t get anything but curious, quiet eyes. Ones that made a small show of looking him over, inch by inch.

“Hiro.” She gave him a small bow and followed where he lead, the small walk giving her a few moments to think as they walked through the doors and down a small hallway. Disbelief was still foremost in her mind, however she did have to acknowledge the small shiver down her spine as she walked in front of him. It was just a little trickle of pleasure at seeing someone so familiar with her.

She looked over her shoulder at him, her long black hair falling like waves over a beach and down her back, she’d been sure to turn so he couldn’t see her scar, though, he’d known she had it, it wasn’t the sort of marking one could hide for any length of time. Still vanity dictated her actions.

He would remember a pretty girl, young, vivacious and driven.

She hadn’t been any of those things for longer than she dared remember.

< “You always did have a problem with taking your eyes off me, Hiro-San.”> Her words drifted off her tongue like fine liquor, warming the air between them. They were kinder than her cold demeanor had hinted at. The round syllables of Japanese bubbled from her red lips as she turned to fully face Hiro. Braver now that she’d had time to formulate her rhetoric.

< “This is a place of criminals and killers. I’m surprised to see you in our ranks.”>

Rory Keegan

Waiting, listening Rory can hear him grunt with annoyance at her interruption. She hesitates trapped with indecision to press on for his attention or to walk away and leave him alone. “Colonel?!” Her voice nearly cracks like an inexperienced teenage girl who’s attempting to talk to the popular boy. There is movement behind the door the scraping of a chair against the floor and the solid footsteps growing louder as he approached the door, which promptly opens. Standing face to face Rylan emerald hues momentarily meet his gaze, a clarion blue which betray his gruff cold exterior.

“What do you want, Keegan?”He growls.

Fuck. This was a mistake. Still, she doesn’t back down instead she steps out of the hall and into his room desperately trying to think of what to tell him – did she know what she wanted? Why had she come here? She didn’t want to be alone. She’d been alone for four years with sparse conversation from the guards who either loathed her existence or tried to unsuccessfully fuck her and so they loathed her as well. Raising a hand fingers comb the long russet bangs from her eyes. Honesty would sound corny. Compliments would sound insincere. Her gaze follows him as he walks pass noticing the stiffness in his strides and a strain in his stance. The tension in the air matches the musky manly scent permeating from his skin mixing with the stale air of the room. Staring at his back she follows the outline of the tone muscles beneath his t-shirt, his tapered waist and firm ass.

Rory doesn’t notice as she takes in a deeper breath her mind a haze of her own want beginning to warm her belly and burn between her thighs. The attraction primal. Fuck, this was a mistake he’s your commanding officer – you’re not going down that road again. Even as she tells herself this she knows she won’t listen to the inner voice. “I – I want – that is…”

Oh fuck it. A few short steps bring her up behind Rylan her hand reaching for his glass she snatches it away and swallows the remainder of the amber liquid, nearly choking against the burn of the low grade whiskey. Slamming the glass down Rory slides her body between him the edge of the desk both hands settling on either side of his neck she reaches up on her toes and hungrily presses her lips against his.

Fraternizing. That was what they'd have called it. There was a time in his life where interludes with pilots were inconceivable. The kind of behavior that muddied waters he relied on being clear. He was supposed to write up the pilots that got involved, send it along to the General for consideration. That was an order Scott had nodded along to, paid pretend attention. The kind of order that he'd chosen to ignore before he'd even heard it.

Besides. She felt damned good.

Her small hands met around his corded neck, splaying at the base of his hair as she pulled herself up to his mouth. The soft pout of her lips crushing to his, softening the taste of the booze with her sweetness. The touch was electric, a bold bolt surging through him. Scott felt the tension rip through him, sudden and ferocious.

Their tongues tangled. His teeth clamped on her lower lip, hard enough to draw blood before his head turned savagely to the side and he kissed her deeply once again. The coppery taste of blood an earthy reminder that it was real, that after years without a woman he had one in his arms. She was lean and soft. Prison hadn't been as hard on her as it'd been on him. Those full breasts crushed up against his chest, pillowing against the hard planes.

One arm hooked her slender waist, crushing her hips to his. His hard-on a ferocious pressure, a great bulge in the stretch of his pants that ran an impressive length down his thigh. They ground together, jolted and primal.

Scott mauled her soft tit in his other hand, felt it yield. Heard sounds ripple from her throat, against his lips, whimpers of want an feminine shock at his savage handling of her. He'd always been a forceful man. His life dictated by taking, not asking. Things were different now. More extreme. The sharp sensation of desire so powerful that it ripped through his rugged frame, set him to breath in ragged pants between their hard kisses.

Her nipples were hard through the cotton of her shirt and his fingers found them, pinching down before tugging, sharp plucks. A tormenting temptation as he used her body, remembered what a woman felt like again.

"Get your shirt off." He growled.

He didn't even recognize his voice.

Rory Keegan

She’d taken a risk kissing him like she did. For a split second she wondered if she’d made a mistake, but then his hands – strong and forceful – gripped her sides kneading the soft skin though the muscles tense beneath. Exhilaration shoots sharply through her body as their lips crush, tongues lash and hands grope for more. His body hard, the feel of his prick through his pants digs into her thigh as her ass is pressed against the edge of the desk.

Arching her back fingers grip to his broad shoulders as her leg hitches around his thigh, an audible moan muffled between their lips. The graze of his teeth roughly against the soft tissue of her lip breaks the skin forcing a whimper from the pain, but there is a sensual beauty in the ache. Running her tongue against her lip she tastes the blood before clamoring for dominance for his mouth.

There is a forcefulness in his handling she’s never experienced and insatiable desires overtake her senses. Groaning with pleasure as he assaults her breast, pinching and tugging at the hardened nipple her hips grind forward. Shivers quake through her body. God, she wants him. The need growing with each grind of their hips and crushing kiss. She feels as if she’s on fire.

“Get your shirt off.”

His growls huskily the primal need present in each short syllable. There’s no hesitation as she pulls from him to slough off the leather jacket, which falls to the desk and then her fingers grip the black tank top, pulling up, the hem pulls free from the waistband of the dark green cargo pants. Up and over her head revealing a light material bra covering ample breasts, making short work of the bra it along with the shirt falls to the floor. Not about to be the only one shirtless her hands grip and tug his shirt up, pealing it from his body she admires the cut of his abdomen and chest, defined and rock hard. Once off the shirt is discarded to the floor her hands pressing to his chest, feeling the outline of his muscles as her lips again claim his in desperation.

They collided together. A furious impact of their bodies, her softness yielding to his hardness. Reluctantly so, as his shirt shed itself to the floor. Her teeth plucked his lips, threatened his tongue as it thrust into the warmth of her mouth to twine with her own. A rough, feral duel of pleasures and desires taking shape in the darkened confines of his cabin. Already the lights were dancing, flickering, failing as the power grid that held them together suffered for the rigors of space travel. For a moment she was a shadow of curves against him, a feminine silhouette whose gentle lines lent itself to the guidance of his strong hands.

His fingers kneaded her full breast, felt her nipple tighten ferociously against the palm of his hand. The warmth of it sending sparks through him, setting loose the powerful want that she'd amplified. He could smell her shampoo now, basic as it was. Hear the beat of their hearts, ferocious, raw.

And he spun her in his arms, twisted her. Laying his palm on the soft valley between her lean shoulders Scott pushed Rory down, bent her over his desk. The cool steel a stark contrast to the heat of his chest, a torment for her hard nipples. One she'd have to endure as he kept her there, bent infront of him. The round of her ass lifted, thrust back within the confines of her pants.

His free hand worked his own belt loose, pushed his pants down as she shucked her own down her thighs, leaving them to frame the perfection of her ass. Unable to fall further as he nudged her ankles apart with the toe of his boots. They didn't need to be nude for this. There wasn't enough time.

His desire pulsed so hotly through him that he heard it in his ears, a rush, a thud thud of his heart keeping time with the twitch of his prick. The great length of his cock, its tremendous weight, flopping from his boxers as he pushed them down to let the velvet crown smack against the round cheeks of her ass.

There was no attempt to waste time, to prepare her. Framed in the round of her flawless ass Rory's pussy was a pouted,, soaked. The wet petals waiting. He nudged his cock's thick head against them, spread them open around its precum-soaked tip. She whimpered, let loose the feminine trembles of want that a man wants so badly to hear. It was enough, enough for Scott to splay his strong fingers between her shoulders and trap her there before his hips thrust forward, impaling her in a sudden, sharp instant on the searing heat of his iron-hard prick until he filled her entirely.

Neela Cranyz

Her new commander's briefing was just that,brief and to the point.
She could respect that in a way,words were a waste of time usually.

After the skipper left to go do...skipper things,everyone seemed to be on the same page.
They all wandered toward their assigned Mech and looked it over,met the wrench jockey that was in charge of keeping their rust buckets in one piece,or a reasonable Mech shaped pile of pieces,and since nobody seemed that interested in talking to each other yet she followed suit and wandered over to the heavy Mech she had been assigned.
Try as she might to keep it in, a soft sigh escaped her lips as she got close to it, she was more accustomed to a medium mech rigged for speed,but when you are one of the last mechwarriors to sign up you get whatever is left.
There was no telling what color it might have been once apon a time,now it was an odd pattern of rust red and scorch mark black with random patches in the armor that made her think of band aids. "Great...this is going to take a little getting used to"

She had no idea she had said that out loud until a voice responded from somewhere over her head. "Lady,you don't know the half of it,this things got more quirks than a brain damaged mud weasel."

Setting aside the thoughts of <what the hell is a mud weasel? where is this guy from?> she looked up and say a mechanic in a faded green jumpsuit clearly made for someone a few kilos larger who was so young looking she wondered if her had ever even shaved much less worked under battle conditions.
"Quirks you say? well I'm kinda quirky myself so maybe it wont be so bad eh?"

He chuckled a little nervously as if he wasn't sure if she was being serious, "Hi, I'm Max. Are you my pilot?" he asked, and at her quick nod he added "then I guess I'm your grease monkey, don't worry I know that look, I know I look young...because I am young,I'm only 19 but I've been fixing up mech parts since before I could spell mech, I won't let you down."

She smiled in spite of herself,he was kinda quirky too. "So tell it to me staight doc, is this patient going to live of what? tell me about theses quirks."

He scratched the back of his neck and looked thoughtful for a few seconds before he answered. "Tell you what,grab that spanner I dropped a few minutes ago and haven't had a chance to climb down and get yet,then come on up and I'll give you the full fist while we try to make this piece of shit into something not entirely unlike a shoulder servo."

She grinned a little as she found the spanner, "you got it chief,be up in a sec."
She liked this kid,even if her mech was a total pile at least he seemed ok.
"I'm Neela by the way." she said as she started to climb.

Rory Keegan

With spontaneous couplings such as these foreplay can only go on for so long. Desperation settles in, more is needed, the connect and euphoric release.

Rylan is the first to act gripping her body roughly, ripping her from him and twisting her around. She hadn't time to stick her hands out to catch herself. The sudden meet of cold steel against the warmth of her breasts results in a shocked gasp. The force in which he pins her down painful, yet she moans. Breathing rapidly. She hears the sound of him unbuckling his belt. His hand which had pinned her to the desk lifts and she acts on the moment of freedom by raising up to unfasten her own pants. She barely has them pass her hips before he tugs them down to her thighs. This is all either of them need.

She would have preferred to have her legs locked around his waist, but that would require time and fuss. His hand again comes roughly down on the center of her back pinning to the desk forcing to smell the remnants of his snuffed out cigars and the stale hint of whiskey. Gripping the edge of the desk there is a brief pause before she feels his cock against her ass and then the head inching into the wet opening of her pussy. Another pause as they both feel the sensation of sexual connection and the driving force of his long thick shaft drilling forward, spreading the inner tight walls, slick and warm embracing and clinging to his cock.

The strength of his entrance forces a groan to her lips. Fuck. He fills her completely. She aches with pleasure and pain from years of self inflicted celibacy. She moans at the delicious sensation of him pulling back almost completely before another forceful thrust foward drags her tits across the desk; the tips of her nipples stiff against the hard steel. Arms bent at her sides she uses this leverage to press her hips back meeting his thrusts.

The sensations build quickly knotting her muscles, warming her flesh and increasing the intervals of her moans, which she attempts to stifle by biting on her swollen lower lip.

Wet friction, the tight grasp of Rory's pussy on his prick, the heat of their bodies colliding atop his desk; sensations that threatened Scott's restraint. He warred with himself, bearing down, but steadily his senses were betraying him. His hips moved of their own accord, answering a primal call. Long slow strokes replaced by powerful thrusts, a pistoning of his hard cock inside the slick walls of her cunt. Again and again he drove into her, rocking her onto her toes.

The clap of his rugged hips against her round ass filling the room, the wet squelching wetness of her body as he forced it to take his great thickness accompanied by the raw scent of their sex. It was a dirty, wanton release of tensions. A hard march towards waiting absolution. Four years worth of waiting, four years of powerful fantasy come to head in the dirty dark of some decrepit dropship's cabin.

She braced herself, one of her small hands taking a white-knuckled grip of the desk's edge as he thrust into her. Scott kept her there, pinned against the unrelenting hardness of his body and the cold metal surface he'd trapped her against. Again and again he drove into her, listening to her sounds, feeling the way her body clenched and trembled around his invading shaft when he stroked deeply.

"Fuck." He growled.

The words a hot wash against her bare back, his hand slipping up to tangle in her hair. He pulled on her now, forced her back to arch. He took control of her body, her ass thrust up towards him and her arms bracing her up, tits swaying with every hard drive of his dick inside her. The angle allowing him to touch the places that made her slick petals gush wetness around him, that brought those muscles to flutter and clench around him, urging him towards a looming satisfaction.

Rory Keegan

Gripping to the edge of the desk, knuckles white from tension, Rory holds in the moans teeth again cutting into the soft tissue of her lips. Closing her eyes she breathes heavily feeling the growing sensations build within. Each thrust from Scott’s cock into her tight pussy sends a tremor through her body. The build was slow; a single electric tingle which grows steadily.

Beads of sweat collect in the middle of her back trickling down her spine. Her body slick with perspiration slides against the desktop as his thrusts force her forward. Hip bones ache with the constant assault from the desk’s edge digging into the flesh. Ah, sweet release it bubbles on the surface – almost there – the head of his cock stimulating those inner walls coaxing a greater sensation with each long thrust – in, out, in.

“Yes.” A mantra repeated over and over beneath her quiet moans. The air filled with their scents mixed together in the all too familiar and nearly forgotten smell of sex. She thought she’d managed fine without the touch of a man, left to her own device, but even that had grown boring. She hadn’t masturbated in nearly a year. Her sex drive driven from her body as a result of her depression. Rylan’s mere presence managed to erase all self control the moment she stepped into his office her body knew what it wanted even before she took those first few steps. His scent was overpowering, intoxicating and like a bitch in heat she’d offered herself to him.
“Fuck, yes!”

Unable to hold that cry back as her body is racked with pleasure, shivering and quaking beneath him. As if on cue his hands tangle in her hair, pulling back hard, she arches her back in reply, pushing up, the heels of her hands pressed firm against the desktop. Lips part in a silent cry as muscles tense freezing, mini convulsions following, trembling and weakening. If not for his firm gasp on her body she’d have collapsed against the desk as wave after wave of glorious pleasure sets her skin on fire.

The dark walls of the cabin held their cries, amplified them in the small confines. Rusted steel walls focused those sounds, her sweet cries. Audible through the door, most likely. Audible down the hall, maybe. Not that Rylan gave a shit. Those days were gone. The General could talk all he'd like about military discipline and honorable motive but the truth was this was a junker full of junk, a trash bin full of discarded lives. The reset button was buried at the bottom of a garbage disposal. They had to survive long enough for one of them to press it. An impossible situation.

The rules just didn't apply.

Beneath his hands Scott felt her, the tension arc through her lean frame. He felt the way her ass pushed up against him, her body bracing itself against the tides of pleasure they were sharing. The hard length of his prick drilled a relentless stroke into her pussy, driving deep to serve as a conduit to every sweet sensation. The slick friction of their fucking helping his own senses find a peak, a feral state of certainty.

The cabin that had smelled so potently of him now smelled of them, a sweet musky haze of purely animal intentions.

She arched, her tits thrust out in a display that shed ten years from her. She could have been twenty. Younger. Her breasts retaining every hint of a glory Rylan could only imagine. She was beautiful. A crimson-haired Phoenix writhing on his hard prick as her juices escaped around his cock and ran down her lean thighs.

It was enough. The pleasure arced through him in sharp waves, broke the hard planes of his muscles to tighten until the ridges were deeply pronounced. When the spring of tension snapped it did so violently, and Scott's hips jerked back, pulled the great length of his prick from the tight clench of her kitty and laid its wet length along the crack of her flawless ass-cheeks.

He came, a flood. Hard jets of molten seed leaping from the velvet crown of his prick to paint her lean back, splashing along her bare shoulderblades and covering her in the wet fire of his climax. A few stray jets surged from him, powered by four years of waiting, arcing over her head entirely to paint pearly ropes in her crimson hair and splash the desk infront of her face. The raw potency of his release serving as a resounding image of his needs, needs she sated. Leaving him to catch his ragged breath behind her, his hands lingering on the soft round of her hips.

Rory Keegan

His release came seconds after her orgasm subsided. The weight of his cock felt against her ass and then the warm sticky globs of cum coats her back, dampens strands of her hair and even makes an appearance on the desk in front of her. Tiny pools. Evidence of their carnal pleasure. Protocol be damned. Not as if Rory had ever followed the rule in the past. Palms firmly planted on the desk she struggles to catch her breath. A curve of a smile touches her lips and she looks over her shoulder, “You’re a bit of an ass, sir.”

Straightening up their bodies disconnect as he takes a step backwards allowing her room to dress. Turning to face him a dribble of cum seeps from her scalp and trickles down the side of her face. Wiping it away with her hand she laughs and smears it against his chest. So much for walking out of here without blatant evidence they’d just fucked hopefully the corridor was clear. Even if it wasn’t she didn’t particularly care it wasn’t as if this meant anything more than what it was – two adults filling a physical need.

Ignoring the cum seeping down her spine as she buckles her pants she goes hunting for her bra, tank top and leather jacket; all of which were in the general radius. She dropped the items on his bed. Tugging on the tank top she then shoves the bra into the pocket of her jacket, which is slung over her arm. Turning to face Rylan, “Nice chatting with you Colonel.”

A quick step to his side she places a kiss against the strong line of his jaw and gives his hip a pat. Nothing else needed to be said, so Rory makes her exit, tugging the heavy door open, stepping out and shutting the door behind with a loud clank The corridor isn’t empty. Several feet down is the man she recognizes at Rylan’s mechanic. He looked at her with a knowing smirk and so she raises her hand in greeting. She had no regrets so there was no reason to be embarrassed. If the gossip sure to spread among the engineering staff paints her as a whore, so be it, she’d been labeled as worse.

Shoving the door of her bunk open it doesn’t feel as desolate of course she was still feeling the endorphin rush of her orgasm. It takes her a few moments to notice the gray container on her bed. Tilting her head to the side she forgets about the discomfort of the sticky cum drying on her skin and walks to the bed. Tossing the jacket onto the pillow she reads the label pasted on top, which simply reads Lorelei Keegan. Pressing her lips together she reaches down and flips the clasps from their locked state. The sound of a seal being broken cracks crisp and hinges creak as she lifts the lid. On top of a pile of items is a single white piece of paper, a neatly printed note and even before she looks to the signature she knows it’s from Jack. Picking up the slip of paper the thick stock feels rich between her fingers.

Pistol –

These are yours.

Crumpling the paper in her fist she drops it to the ground, swallowing an angry lump in her throat she looks at the items in the container – clothes lined the bottom, a few books, an old leather journal and then there was a scarlet box sitting on top of a pair of folded pants. Picking up the box she can hear something sliding around inside; lifting the lid Rory stares at the contents and a dark mood shadows her face. Taking several even breathes she stares at the item her thoughts recalling a day more than six years ago.

---
She and Jack were in the cargo bay of the Windstorm standing between their Mech’s their helmets at their feet. They’d been in a particularly rough battle and lost five members of their unit. His arms were tightly wound around her body crushing her close and showed no signs of letting her go. Her Mech had taken a beating as had she and the cut above her eye had only just stopped oozing blood. The pressure of his hug told her exactly where the bruises were swelling on her body. “I thought I lost you.” His voice so full of pain and relief that she felt guilty for loving him.

“But you didn’t.” She said calmly and felt him stiffen, he hated when she lacked the same sentiment. Twisting her body she freed herself from his grasp and looked him straight in the eye, “I’m fine.”

“No, your not.” His hand reached for the wound above her eye and she flinched away from his touch.

“I am. It’s only a scratch. Faces bleed more than they should…something about the capillaries close to the skin.” A smirk tugged to her lips.

He frowned.

She sighed. “Sorry, but if you’re going to love me then you have to lighten up…a little.”

He frowned.

She closed her eyes and then had an idea. From her neck she freed a silver chain and pulled it over her head on the chain dangles a piece of scrap metal. “This is what’s left of my first Mech before it was scrapped. It never failed me and kept me alive through a number of missions before it was damaged beyond repair. I should have been critically injured, but I walked away with only a few minor scrapes and bruises.”

She reached for Jack’s hand, turned it over and pooled the trinket into his palm, “I want you to have it; as long you love me and carry this with you know that I’ll be safe.”

Jack looked skeptical, “I don’t think good luck charms work like that.”

Rory smiled, “This one does. It has enough luck for both of us.”---

“Argh!”

Rory growls blinking through angry tears and throws the box across the room the contents clattering against the wall above her desk. Frustration. Hurt. Betrayal. Next went the container. Kicking the container – once – twice – damaging the lid then turns to the steel leg of the bed kicking it several times before she stops; one hand on her hip the other pressed against her forehead as she takes several deep breaths to calm the sudden burst of emotions. “Fuck.”

Crouching down she turns over the container and tosses in a few items before grabbing a fresh pair of pants, black and a t-shit, brown. She needed a shower. Leaving her room she walks down the corridor to the communal showers choosing a stall in the back and tosses the clean clothes on a bench before stripping out of her soiled ones. Running the water till it’s hot she stands beneath the flow of water closing her eyes and moving her fingers through her hair.

His door closed. The dull clang of steel on steel. The streak of cum along the smooth plane of his chest. Even the end was quick and dirty. As it needed to be. Emotions weren't exactly a part of their purgatory, this trial. This group of misfits and criminals were supposed to fight their way through perdition and towards redemption. Most of it was a crock of shit. Most of it was the grand bullshit of a General who had spent so much time dining from the table of nobility that he'd lost touch with the world around him. But Rylan's Roughriders were in for a hell of a fight. That was certain.

And he had things to see to.

His eyes tracked over his desk, a mess of scattered papers and a displaced data unit. His cum lay streaked across the surface, inspiring an image of her body bent before him. The way her ass had crushed so neatly to his hips. His prick gave a hard tremor, a lurch. They'd have to have another chat soon.

Taking the bottle from the pair's steel bed, Scott went to shower. He thought of what had brought him here, brought him to prison as he drank. The bite of the liquor reminding him of the thick stink of coolant and the sensation of falling. He remembered being pulled out of the shattered remains of his Timberwolf and handcuffed while his shoulders were still dislocated. The water washed away the scent of their fuck, ran over the hard ridges of his body and the scars that littered his frame.

"Boss?"

The voice familiar, recognizable even through the curtain of water falling from the shower's head. He turned it off and stepped out, toweling his waist before looking up to Drake Legion.

Drake didn't look anything like a mechanic should look. He was young and handsome. His face chiseled with fine angles that framed his deep green eyes. He was an arrogant son of a bitch and Scott didn't care for him at all. A cock-sure engineering graduate, he should have been reedy and thin. The kind of build that spoiled university students so frequently carried. But Drake wasn't reedy. He was huge. He was easily six-and-a-half feet tall. A solid two-hundred and thirty pounds. His body a rippled sea of powerful muscles, bunched and corded. There was a good chance the kid was the strongest son of a bitch outside a Clan's breeding program that Scott had ever seen. And Drake knew it. Just like he knew he was the kind of handsome University girls swooned over.

"What is it, Drake?"

"I thought you said you liked your girls with dark hair." He quipped.

"What do you want?" Scott repeated, giving the kid a cutting glance.

"Fuck, she was fine though. She smiled at me with your jizz in her hair. Maybe I should stop by after I-"

"Shut up, kid."

"am done talking to you. God, the ass on her. Did you fuck her or did she just-"

"Shut up, Drake."

"blow you? I mean, either way I'm impressed. You two just met. Was it your rank, you think. She think that it'll-"

"Shut the fuck up, Drake."

"get her an easier duty or favor points. I bet it was prison. You both hadn't fucked in how"

Scott backhanded him. Hard. The crack of his hand driving into the larger kid's jaw sounding through the room as spit flew from his lips, hanging briefly in the air before it landed on his cum-streaked desk. Drake shut up, his mouth clapping closed. Scott finally saw some stones in the hulking giant, those eyes narrowed into angry slits. Hatred and humiliation fighting for supremacy in them.

"My business isn't your business, Ensign." Scott said. His voice low. "And it isn't the rest of the crew's. You're a mechanic, Drake. But I'm a traitor. A criminal. And I'm in-charge. Is that understood?"

Silence. Cold silence. But Scott could -feel- the kid's hatred, his indignation. There was a good chance Drake's parents were wealthy and soft, handled him like a baby. Coddled him. It was clear that he'd never been struck like that, or talked to like that, in his young life. Scott didn't feel any sympathy, or any concern at the hatred blossoming in the kid's face.

"Yes, sir." Drake answered through gritted teeth. The entire side of his face was already darkening, forming a shallow bruise.

Scott nodded. Once. His cigar carrying hand falling briefly onto the desk, beside the pearly streak of his own cum. It was drying on the steel's surface, turning filmy. The stink of the cigar filling the room. He took a drink from his glass before setting it down and claiming a seat.

"Now what did you want?" He asked.

"I've got that list of materials you wanted. Everything needed for your requests. I marked the things that aren't for sale in the Inner Sphere." The kid fished out a battered piece of paper and tossed it onto the desk. It bounced once, slid through Drake's own spit, before getting stuck on Scott's drying cum and stopping.

"Is that all?"

"Yes. Sir." The boy replied.

"Get the fuck out of here. And remember what I said." Scott glanced up as he tucked the stogie between his lips, clenching the butt with his teeth. Through the slate-haze of smoke he saw the smoldering hatred in the boy's face. And smiled.

It was enough for the big kid, more than enough. He was up and out the door, closing it loudly in his wake.

Scott poured himself a glass as the door drew closed, and exhaled. Three hours into his first day and he'd had himself a good woman, some bad booze, and made an enemy in a boy who looked as though he could bench-press the Bellyacher. They were thirty-three hours from their first drop.

And he couldn't help but be aware of the knot forming in his stomach.

Zoey gracefully made her way down the side of her mech like it was her personal jungle gym and hopped down the last few feet with a nod to Sam, who had just finished tacking on the last slab of armor to the whole in the Bushwacker's leg. Her sigh was low and long as she looked up at the mech, smiling a bit as the tips of her fingers touched along the seemingly impenetrable tank's leg. This...this was her home. She never did have much luck with love or a family in the Lyran Commonwealth and she lost of her parents, both jockeys themselves, in two separate fights. One against a small Draconis Combine incursion and the other in the the first appearance of the Clanners.

It was a little amusing to her that she joined the ranks first to get vengeance against House Kurita and found her life's joy in the cockpit of a mech. No matter the class, the firepower, the age, she felt alive when she was plugged into a walker.

Her thoughts drifted back to Rylan, and how much he reminded her of the Drill Sergeant she decked in to her third month of boot. Thinking back, she thought she was being reasonable enough to wait so long before dislocating his jaw. 'Course, he did swing first. The court favored in her defense, though it started a long list of crap assignments mixed with insane drops into. A flurry of combat mixed with long hours of drills and classes to see if she couldn't somehow be more useful. Never seemed to help. Training in working on mechs, fix your own damn mech and let others have the mechanic. Tactics, what the hell do you think you're doing, taking a commander's training? She settled with advanced hand to hand just in time to break the sternum and rupture the lung of some hotshot prick who held rank and thought she would be an easy lay. After all, who would tattle on the CO?

She caught sight of Rylan's mechanic storming down the hangar with a fairly large bruise forming along his jawline. She chuckled a bit and waved at him. "Hey...watch out for those doors. They'll getcha every time."

"Hey Sam, make sure I don't die on the first drop, eh? Gonna do some walking around." He offered a small wave behind him with the welder as she walked over to Jason's Thresher, who was conveniently her neighbor. She leaned against a leg and wrapped on the steel with a knuckle. "Hey, anyone home?"

Jason Ashby

Emily stood there for a second, staring at his back as he reached up and fiddled with the wiring. She was still exasperated that a mech pilot would know the inner workings of a mech, and when he mentioned NAIS, her mood changed entirely. Every mechanic, every scientist, every researcher in the Federated Suns dreamed of working there someday. The Lost Tech reverse-engineering, the files that had been stored in the Grey Death Memory Core found on Helm, working with and consulting with the legendary members of Team Banzai, it was more than anyone could have hoped for. She wanted to ask him so many questions, wanted to pick his brain for every little detail, but something held her back. It was the way he trailed off, the way his eyes darkened and his body sagged as if under a ten-ton cargo crate. There was a history there, an unpleasant one, and she felt it wise to bite her tongue for the time being.

“So,” said Emily, trying to avoid the obvious questions she wanted to ask him, “There’s still a lot to do on the old girl before it’ll be ready for a drop. I’ve gone through the core systems, and they’re all ready to go, but I’ve got a list that’s a mile long of little things that still need to be buttoned up. Since you seem to know what you’re doing since you worked at New Avalon…” There was a slight pause in her voice. Her curiosity was eating at her. She had to ask, but she knew she shouldn’t. “Anyways, we should get to work.” Ashby noticed her change in demeanor almost immediately. She was much more reserved, much less brash, and seemingly much more curious about his past than she had been just two minutes ago.

“Let’s get to that list first, then maybe we’ll talk,” he said, eyeing the tattered wiring. He grabbed a pair of wire strippers and a bundle of wire and began cutting and splicing in new sections. Working on a mech was almost natural for him. It felt good to get his hands dirty again, to hold something in his hand that was more than the edge of a prison bunk, to have the ability to move about, to think, to dream of what his life could be if he lived through this.

There was an uncomfortable silence between them as they worked, him on the wires and her tucking the actuator back into the loading mechanism of the auotcannon on the other side of arm. The wordless rift between then seemed to grow with each passing wire, each soldered joint, each nut and bolt. Ashby tried to focus on the wiring bundle in front of him, but he could feel her watching him, and caught her glancing at him almost every time he caught a glimpse of her. He turned towards her, the arm still between them, and sighed.

“You were all piss and vinegar five minutes ago, Emily,” he said, peeking over the arm. “And now, you’re as polite and quiet as a church mouse. You’re trying to get on my good side so I’ll tell you about my time at NAIS, aren’t you?”

She bit her lip and fidgeted with the soldering iron, rolling the handle between her fingers as she stared at him. She’d been found out. Being subtle had never been one of her strong suits.

“Yeah,” she said, her eyes brightening up slightly as she leaned against the open access panel. “I do, but I can tell it’s kind of a sore spot for you.”

“You’re not kidding,” he said. “It’s part of the reason I ended up here. And what about you, Emily? From your file, it looks like you’ve been in some serious trouble in the past too. Reprimands, transfers, fights? What’s that all about?”

“Well, I grew up with four brothers, all older than me,” she said, turning and leaning her back against the panel. “I learned that hard way that I had to take care of myself because no one else was going to do it. So I don’t take shit from anyone. You criticize me for not working as hard as you, I’ll work harder. You come over and patronize me for being a woman and I’ll knock you flat on your ass. Just the type of person I am.”

“So the reprimands were just…”

“Hey, like I said, I don’t take shit,” Lake said, the fire returning to her voice. “Some captain thought he could walk through our maintenance bay and play grab ass, and I broke his nose with a socket drive.”

“I’ll have to remember that,” Ashby said. “And the transfers?”

Lake rolled her eyes and sighed. Ashby could tell it was a story that she’d told more than one time before.

“That’s a whole other saga I’ll have to tell you later. You mind heading up into the left knee and see what’s been grinding in there while I finish up here on the loader?” She turned and began working the actuator back into the cramped space, her arm buried almost up to the shoulder to reach where the small component fit. He grabbed a pair of green coveralls from the hook on the wall and climbed up the leg of the mech so he could work his way down into the knee from above, sliding between myomer bundles and the thick tensioning cables that kept the joint together like tendons. The knee actuator was worn, but still serviceable. The bearings looked like they hadn’t seen a grease gun in a decade.

“So how are working for New Avalon and ending up here related?” Lake questioned from below. Her words came hollow and muffled by the time they reached his ears.

He thought about how to answer, how to put the story into perspective so she would understand that he didn’t belong here, that he was just a soldier doing his job that ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. A rapping rang out through the metallic armor plates and interrupted his thought. A new voice echoed up through the leg.

“Anyone home?”

Ashby wriggled his way back up the way he had come and popped out of the knee looking more like a mechanic than a pilot. He was stained from head to waist in grease and oils, and he could feel the uncomfortable sensation of his clothes sticking to him as he made his way down to the ground level. The voice belonged to Zoey Kessler, the pilot of the Bushwhacker that was pared just aft of the Thresher.

“Jason Ashby,” he said, extending a greased hand towards her. He looked down at it, smiled, and tried to wipe it off on the coveralls before extending it once again. “Sorry about the mess, but I’d rather make sure it works than make sure I stay clean.”

Brennan was in the back of the hanger bay while Rylan gave his little speech to the new pilots. It made her shake her head to listen to him talk about them all ending up dead and him pushing buttons but it wasn't her place to say anything. They were his crew and he'd lead them how he saw fit. From the files she'd been given she supposed they were going to be a rough bunch and would probably need a strong leader, making sure he was the Alpha-male from word one was probably a good idea.

What she didn't do was hang out once he was done. The pilots needed to get to know their mech's and their mechanics, she didn't. As soon as the speech was over she slipped out the back door and deeper into the ship. Her parents (both pilots in their own right) would have been embarrassed to be assigned to this outdated bucket of rust but Brennan actually liked it. She knew she was still green and fresh from her training, the ink barely dry on her "MD" but a boat like this would guarantee her all the field expertise she'd need for a premier assignment, if/when they ever got back home. And if she chose not to re-sign she'd been promised a large enough bonus to set up her own practice and not have to worry about money while she established a patient base.

Overall she was expecting this to be a good trip for her...assuming she made it back alive of course.

Opening the doors to the med bay a small smile curved her lips. This was her world. This room filled with bottles, tapes, gauzes and shiny surgical instruments was where she felt most at home. There wasn't really anything that needed to be done in here, it was simply where she felt at peace. Deciding there was always some small chore to get done she pulled a clipboard out of one of the drawers and started to take inventory of exactly what she had available.

She made two lists while she worked, one of must haves and one of, wants. She'd cross reference it against the extra supplies in the hold and make sure she didn't just need to bring something up. It took almost no time for her to be lost in her own work and oblivious to the rest of the world.

Zoey couldn't help but chuckle as Jason poked his head out of the leg of his mech. She grinned and shook his greasy, oil slicked hand and laughed as she wiped her hand off on a clean bit of Jason's shirt.

"Right. Because in this fine, pristine vessel it should be expected that I remain spotlessly clean." She chuckled and looked around. "Careful not to make a mess on the floor. I spent time getting it to shine like it does."

She offered a wave to Emily before crossing her arms and leaning against the leg of his Thresher again, giving Jason a quick look over. Heh. He was kinda cute, in a grease monkey pilot sort of way. A lot of the jockeys she knew before prison couldn't tell a gyro from a magic 8 ball. It was nice to see someone who had a bit of experience in fixing aside from their assigned mechanics. After all, who knew what sort of jury-rigging these things would need in the middle of the field?

"Anyways, I'm Zoey. Zoey Kessler. Don't stop fixing on my account, yeah? Just seeing what sort of people I'll be trying not to die next to. How long has it been for you?" She looked up at the hulk of steel and tapped it with a finger, then turned her attention back to Jason with a slight tilt of her head.

Hiro Kagekaze

http://fraser.typepad.com/photos/uncategorized/2007/12/30/tonyleung2.jpg

Old models of Leopard class dropships were well known for cramped quarters. Privacy was going to be a rare commodity, but Hiro had a knack for scrounging up things that were needed, tangible and otherwise.

< “You always did have a problem with taking your eyes off me, Hiro-San.”>

<"You know that's not true, kohai."> The last word came out subconsciously. While Yorini matured from their days at the academy nearly 10 years ago, he remembered her as the beautiful, talented student that was one year his junior, and he referred to her as such. Hiro recalled the countless hours of combat instruction, both hand-to-hand and mech-to-mech, he spent with her, sharpening her techniques. <"I could easily take my eyes off of you. I simply choose not to."> He escorted her into an empty cabin. Maybe it was his, he wasn't sure. He didn't care. He had other objecives in mind. <"If that's a problem, kohai, we can always settle it in the ring... again.">

He saw the flickers of the memory of perhaps the most meaningful day of their relationship. Hiro loved women, and sometimes abused his power to get what he wanted from one. One female student quit the academy because of his attention. Yorini was different, and when Hiro crossed the line, Yorini challenged him to a fight. They went 10 rounds, the upper hand constantly changing between the two top unarmed combatants in the academy. Hiro had reach, Yorini had flexibility. The match was declared a draw by the judges. The purpose of the fight was a success - the air was cleared between the two academy students, and Hiro had something for a woman he never had before - respect. After the match, Hiro and Yorini continued sparring in a different way, Hiro still using his reach, Yorini still using her flexibility.

<"This is a place of criminals and killers. I’m surprised to see you in our ranks.">

Hiro guided her until she was standing, facing a bunkbed of the cabin as he closed the door, forgetting to lock it. He stood behind her and placed her arms on the top bunk, the way he did guiding her hands on the controls of a simulator or correcting a subtle error in a strike. He knew that he couldn't trap her if he wanted to. If she was cornered, it was because she wanted to be cornered.

In addition to hearing his whispers directly in her ear, she could feel the words on her neck. <"I'm surprised to see you as well, kohai. This crew does not seem like the hardest of criminals - perhaps just others like us who did things that were misjudged, misunderstood and punished unjustly. Still, I'd rather see you here, than never see you again at all. Not a day has gone by that I didn't think about you. You gave me hope while I was locked up. It's been so long since I spoke to you, since I saw you ..."> He placed his hands on her hips. <"... Since I touched you..."> He pressed his nose against her hair and sniffed as he ran his hands around to her lower back and up to her shoulders. <"... Since I smelled you..."> He turned her around, placing his hand under her chin, lifting it to face him head on, her scar visible but on the edge of her face from his viewpoint. <"... and here you are, right in front of me, the two of us together again, not knowing when the end will come for either of us."> He pulled her close, his lips right in front of hers, his head tilted to the side. <"Words can't describe how much I've missed you, Yorini.">

He showed her with a kiss.




(OOC: Some ideas shamelessly taken from Mass Effect 2.)